the king that walks alone
by Princess of Radiance
Summary: Tales of the Panther King of the white desert. Drabbles, rated for Grimmjow.
1. Pensamientos de un Rey

This is the first 'chapter' in a series of drabbles I've written about Grimmjow. More to come. They're all just separate minifics, but they're all about him. Enjoy!

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Grimmjow didn't have much time to sit and think anymore. Not that it was an activity he'd ever done with much frequency or gusto before, but as the weeks wore on, it seemed like he needed to more and more.

Things plagued him, a lot of things. They ate at the back of his head every waking moment, and sometimes he just needed to sit and think.

So he'd hide in a cave, one of his hideouts, curled in a corner in the back with his stolen cloak wrapped around him against the chill, and think, staring at nothing in particular, lost in thoughts.

All this time, these long weeks, months…he'd been protecting people. The arrancars. He was a one-man army, a lone arrancar against thousands of Quincies. Every five he saved, ten were erased. But he kept fighting. He'd heard whispers of his deeds, people talking of the arrancar that was saving arrancar from those bastards, a savior…

A hero.

It ate at him. A hero? Him? The man who lived to fight for fighting's sake? The man who…

Fuck it. He couldn't deny the fact that he was not that man anymore. The months had taken their toll, and he was no longer the wild, brash, bloodthirsty Espada he once was.

He…fought for something, now. He had a reason behind his battles - to protect arrancar, to protect his kingdom, to save the lives of his 'brothers'. He had a reason, and he fought all the harder for it.

And - and here was the kicker - he liked it. He liked the feeling he got when he was thanked, when he saw the arrancar fleeing and knowing that they were safe. He liked the look on the rescuees' faces when they saw him swoop in. He…liked playing the hero.

That confused him and scared him a little. Hadn't Aizen told him, hadn't they all known that Hollows were vicious creatures, living only on negative emotions, anger and jealousy and pain and hunger? If that was so, then why was he happy? Why was he satisfied? Why was he genuinely enjoying being a protector?

It felt right, though. Like…it was meant to be this way for him. Some memory in the back of his subconscious told him that this is what he was meant to be, and this is what he was made for - some leftover scraps of memories from his human life, maybe? He didn't know. He just knew it felt like home.

And the thing was…as much as he wished things were back the way they used to be, when all he cared about was fighting to fight…he didn't. He liked things this way. He wanted them to stay like this.

All the cold nights hiding in a cave or crouched up against a sand dune..all the sleepless days and weeks running…the hunger that was practically a constant…the exhaustion that ran deep in his bones and sat like a weight whenever he stopped…the loneliness that was the hardest and most painful thing he had to deal with…

It was worth it. He felt good and he felt right for the first time he could ever remember, and he wanted to keep it. Even if he was a Hollow, was empty and incomplete and dark and hungry…he wanted to feel like a hero.

And so he kept fighting.


	2. Después del Final

He woke up slowly, his whole body aching and sore. Everything hurt, especially his shoulder. He moaned, fingers digging into the sand under him, screwing his eyes up against the too-bright artificial sun, wanting to just go back to sleep.

But then he remembered. He remembered the fight with Kurosaki, the wounds he'd gotten throbbing with the memory. And he remembered Nnoitra.

The sudden fire in his shoulder, the momentary blank as he struggled to process what had just happened, as he fell to the sand without even a cry, too stunned to yell out or react to the burning agony in his shoulder, the arm nearly cut off at the socket.

He remembered being afraid, for the first time he could ever recall in his life as a Hollow. Not just afraid, either - it was pure animalistic terror as Nnoitra lifted his sword for the final blow. Deep and powerful and instinctual as he watched immobile, unable to even raise an arm to block his inevitable and terrifying death.

And then salvation. The very shinigami he'd just met in battle, stepping in front of the blade. Saving him. Protecting him, protecting the man who'd very nearly killed him.

The memories made him shoot up into a sitting position, letting out a reflexive cry as his shoulder protested loudly, agony shooting down his arm.

He staggered to his feet_,_ clutching his wounded shoulder, and looked around, eyes wide and breathing heavy, a frightened animal wary of danger.

But the desert was silent. Glancing around like a trapped animal, he saw a corpse in the distance…no, two. Nnoitra and Tesla. Oh.

Oh.

It was over, wasn't it?

He screwed his eyes shut, searching for any trace of reiatsu. There was none. Nothing. Las Noches was completely empty. He was alone.

Completely alone.

Without realizing, he let out a scream, a wordless cry of fury and helplessness. He'd missed _everything_. And now Kurosaki was gone, the Espada were dead…hell, maybe even_Aizen_ was dead. And he was completely alone, the lone survivor.

Glancing around, he forced himself towards the castle, still tense and wary, but knowing he needed to lick his wounds in a safe place. His pride was wounded, and he was still afraid. He needed time to recover, and then…

He didn't know what he'd do, really. Fight? That was all he was good for, all he could do. But for now, he needed to heal. He'd cross that bridge when he was recovered.

It wasn't something he wanted to think about, anyway.


	3. El Enemigo

They were only enemies because he wanted a fight.

He didn't care why he fought, or why these were the ones to kill. He didn't care who they were, if they were the good guys, or if he was on the side of right.

He lived for destruction, to tear out throats and leave bleeding bodies in his wake. The thrill of the hunt and the adrenaline of the fight. To rip and tear and smash and kill.

That was what he was made for, and that is what he would do.

He didn't care who.

If you were in his way, you were deemed an enemy.

And he always killed his enemies.

Until one.

Until the boy with the orange hair.

An enemy to kill, just like the rest. Of no importance to him, a nameless enemy to die like the ones before him.

But he didn't die. He fought back, stronger and fiercer than he'd ever expected, scarring him forever, prey leaving his mark on the predator that he could never, would never escape.

And through humiliation and demotion and pain, that mark became his obsession.

He became a reason to fight, the orange haired boy. He was the prey of the king, now. Vision narrowed to one, the predator's drive for destruction focused on a single figure in black.

No one else mattered, he would fight no one else. All he wanted was to destroy that boy, those brown eyes that looked at him filled with something so familiar and so painful he wanted to rip them out of the shinigami's face.

And he was stopped by a grinning devil in a mask, the second time, and that just made him more intent, more obsessed.

It taunted him, that mask of the shinigami's, that deaths-head grin. He couldn't think about anything else but ripping that mask off his face, gouging out those horrible familiar eyes, ripping him to pieces for a slight he barely even remembered at this point. It was a terrible obsession.

He breathed and lived now for that final fight against his enemy. His one sole enemy that had come to define him. His aspect, the king of destruction, had been refined by those battles into a predator with only one prey, one thing to destroy – the shinigami with the orange hair.

And finally, the fight came.

He had his battle, his destruction, his prey, his obsession. The boy with the grinning mask and those damnable terrible eyes.

He was destroyed instead, beaten down and defeated, and both knew this was the end of it, even if the king refused to admit it. Refused to let him look at him with those eyes anymore. He couldn't take that feeling of familiarity and shame and pain that twisted his empty soul every time brown met blue.

Maybe things would have ended different had it not gone the way things did. Maybe he would have still been a predator with one target, one enemy.

But instead, king became prey, ally became murderer, and prey became protector.

He lay in his own blood, staring up at his enemy, his prey, and he heard and he saw and through the pain and the fog and the helpless fury, it happened.

He stopped being an enemy. He became something the king had no word for, no understanding of, no way to know. He didn't know what he was anymore, the boy with those eyes.

But he wasn't an enemy anymore.

He had no enemies. He never did. Just reasons to kill.

And now there were none.


	4. Cicatrices

Grimmjow had a lot of scars.

Not all of them were visible, though some were. But there were a lot of them. And each one that meant something held a story behind it. A story he would never forget.

There was the scar on his back, long since vanished when he became an arrancar, but the memory of it would never fade. The memory of his first fight upon becoming an adjuchas, a fight he barely escaped from. A reminder to never underestimate an opponent, never think he was completely safe. It was a reminder he forgot from time to time, but the collection of scars served as an increasing reminder.

Then the scar on his neck, right below his mask. Hard to see, but there. He knew it was. It ached sometimes, especially after a rough night of forgotten dreams. Self-inflicted, right after he gained human form and became an arrancar. A panicked awakening, clawing at his mask as if to rip it off. The scar served as a reminder of what he was, and sometimes of what he used to be. He tried to ignore it most of the time.

There was a scar on his leg, his knee to be precise. A reminder of Aizen's power and capabilities. He'd gotten it the first time he'd spoken out, spoken back. Aizen had done what he'd always done since, pushed him to his knees, dragging him to the hard, cold, floor - humiliating him. It was another ignored reminder, but one that always served to anger him.

And there were the scars that were invisible, thanks to the healing princess. Where his tattoo was, and sealing his arm together. Reminders that he could be defeated, could be harmed, could be broken and humbled. Those reminders hurt. They may not be marked on his body, but they were marked on his spirit.

Of course one could never forget the scar that was his pride, his anger, his obsession and his everything. The scar Kurosaki Ichigo gave him, proud and strong and always visible under his opened jacket. That scar that prey gave to predator, that he kept to remind him of the first purpose he'd been given as an arrancar, his first real reason to fight. He still kept it, even now, as a reminder that even he could have things to fight for, even if they were selfish and cruel.

And finally, the newest in his collection, the scar on his shoulder, making his arm ache and move slower then it should. It had healed, but it left it's mark, both on skin and spirit. It had brought him too close to death, too close to the end. It was a reminder of mortality in death, and his fear of it.

None of them he would ever get rid of, no matter the pain they caused him. They were part of him, part of his experiences.

They were his story.


	5. Enjaulado

Grimmjow hated cages.

Freedom meant so much to him, meant _everything _to him. Freedom was his driving force, his greatest desire.

He wanted to be free, to run and fight and become stronger and do _what _he wanted _when_he wanted to. To take orders from no one but himself. To be his own man. To have the whole world to explore and travel, to have everywhere to go and everyone to meet and fight.

He dreamed of it, could taste it. Sweet and heady like the best wine. Just a sip, and he wanted more. It was addicting, freedom. And he was already so far into the high there was no turning back.

Therefore, he hated cages. They were the antithesis of freedom, the weakness to his strength. They held him back and trapped him and tortured him with the claustrophobia and the leashes and chains.

And he had been in one for the longest time.

The cage was not iron and bars, oh no. That would have been a physical cage, and he could have torn it apart, destroyed the bars and won his freedom with ease.

The cage he had been trapped in was carved of white marble, of stone and open spaces and artificial sun. Of cruel, cold brown eyes and horrible reiatsu – sharp and cold and heavy like a weight on his soul.

Las Noches was his cage, and he had tested the bars many times, only to be dragged back by his collar, a panther trapped in a gilded cage of false promises of power.

Oh, he knew the promises were false and the claims were lies. They were obvious to anyone who didn't blindly trust. Terribly, plainly obvious. And he was the only one who ever really _knew._

So he fought the bars and pulled at his leash and clawed at the chains. Wanted real power, real strength, the kind the false king could never give him – the only thing that fake smile could give was subjugation and death.

But finally, finally, even though death nearly came and took from him his chance, he was free.

He left that white stone cage behind him and never looked back.

He was free, and he would _die_ before he let anyone cage him again.


	6. Las Espadas y Sus Detentadores

No one thought Grimmjow was very observant, and he really wasn't, but he was far more aware of the people surrounding him than anyone else thought.

In his gilded cage, there was nothing else to do but regard the other prisoners, the foolish soldiers who didn't even know they were imprisoned.

It was interesting, to observe and quietly – more quietly than anyone expected him to be – form opinions on the men he was ranked among, and their leaders. Perhaps even analyze their weaknesses – he would be likely to fight them if he thought he could win.

The Primera was…unexpected. A bit like him, in his desire to do whatever he wanted. He was lazy, unmotivated, someone you wouldn't expect to be powerful. But he was, Grimmjow could feel it. A quiet sort of power, not flashy and not fake. He was one of the few the Sexta ever respected. Because he knew the man didn't trust their leader either, only followed to assuage loneliness. And loneliness was something Grimmjow understood.

He remembered the old skeleton king from before their leader came. Stories of the great leader, turning those beneath him to dust, sitting like a statue on his throne of bones. He'd hated him, just from the tales. A man thinking he was better, trying to subjugate those who did not want it. Someone to take freedom away. That hadn't changed when they met in person, even when they were both slaves to the same master.

The Tercera, he didn't know very well. She was quiet, kept to herself and her fraccion, the three girls as loyal to her as his were to him, though they seemed to be less afraid of her then in awe. That earned her some modicum of respect from him, as did her mistrust of Aizen, more obvious then she realized. Anyone who didn't trust their leader was acknowledged as someone worthy of respect.

He hated Ulquiorra. That was something simple and true, and would always be so. The Cuarta was so wrapped up in loyalty, so blinded by faith, that he could not see the bars of the cage that held them all. He followed Aizen like a kicked puppy, licking up scraps and parroting words the leader said, ideas the leader held. It grated on him, infuriated him. That someone so blinded and stupid and trapped within a cage he himself made_would look down on him. _He wanted nothing more than to beat the arrogance out of that expressionless face and cold green eyes.

If he hated the Cuarta, he _loathed _the Quinta. The bastard was little more than an animal, even to someone as close to a beast as Grimmjow. At least Grimmjow had honor, had standards he held to even if he didn't know why they meant something to him. The Quinta was little more than a mad dog. He looked down on people for no reason, for no _good _reason. Because they were female? Because he didn't like them? It disgusted him. The lack of reasons, the lack of anything but mad desire to kill. Nnoitra didn't care about getting stronger – he thought he already was the strongest. And that made Grimmjow hate him.

He didn't know the Septima very well, and didn't want to. He knew enough. Knew his loyalty and his blind devotion, and that was enough to make him avoid the man and his loud declarations of fealty.

The Octava disgusted him, but for very different reasons than the others did. He'd been in those labs, smelled the blood and gore and chemicals, tasted the sickly sweet air, heard the screams…it was _wrong. _Sick and wrong because no Hollow should do those things to another, no Hollow should want to rip another open to see how things worked, or take such wicked, twisted glee in doing so. He tried to stay as far away from the man as he could, avoiding him out of instinctual wariness and disgust.

He didn't think much about the Novena. It wasn't that he disliked him, or liked him even. He just…seemed to escape notice. Blend in. he knew the Gillian was blindly loyal as well, but…there was always a note of desperation in his devoted words. Desperation, in his all-powerful need to consume and consume and consume that Grimmjow remembered from his own time as a Gillian, as an Adjuchas. Apparently no one else did, though, because it was met with derision from those higher ranked. But Grimmjow remembered, and could understand to a degree. That didn't make it less uncomfortable to think about.

As for the shinigami…

He loathed the blind shinigami almost as much as he loathed Nnoitra. They were opposites, those two, but they were the same in how they infuriated the Sexta. Tosen was order where Nnoitra was chaos, too many rules where he was not enough of them. Tosen represented the cage. He would have Grimmjow leashed and chained and held down, stripped of his freedom and power and everything that made Grimmjow who he was. And Grimmjow refused that.

The grinning shinigami was an enigma. He couldn't for the life of him understand the man, or his motives. He bothered him, for no reason he could name. That inscrutable grin, those unseen eyes…that casual way he had of making even the most gruesome threats…it was eerie. Sometimes he seemed more inhuman than a hollow. But the way he looked at Aizen when the man wasn't looking made Grimmjow think there was more to that smile than one could see. He was the shinigami he disliked the least of the three, really.

As for his leader, the man that sat above them all on his throne…

He knew the man's words were manipulations, his smiles were fakes. He of all of the swords knew, it seemed. Maybe because he had never trusted him? Never believed for a second anyone else could give him the power he wanted? He had only agreed to join the army to find a new way to become stronger – on his own. And it had been a way to fight stronger and stronger enemies, a way to push himself further. He didn't care about the man's goals, the man's plans – all he wanted was to fight and grow strong and be free – but that last one was taken from him by the very man that had granted him power. And that was possibly when the last of the delusion faded. No one would take his freedom, not even his leader.

He was among people he hated, people who were blinded by loyalty and devotion and desperation, or people who were there for their own secret reasons, but he was the only one of them all who rebelled, who wanted to be free, who didn't care about the war and let the world know. He only cared about fighting, and he'd follow Aizen for that, but he would never accept obedience or loyalty or subjugation. Never.

He would be free, because it was in his nature. And even among the chained, he did not lose that spirit.


	7. Amistad

Grimmjow wasn't used to the concept of 'friendship'. He didn't really understand it, either. What kind of relationship was 'friendship', anyway? Didn't it mean you had to see someone as an equal? Not just in terms of skill, but in everything? He couldn't fathom that.

He wasn't 'friends' with his fraccion. They were weaker than him, both in body and mind. Weak cowards. He joked with them, and fought alongside them, but in the end they were subordinates, not equals. Not friends.

Kurosaki and the others made even less sense to him. Kurosaki was willing to die for any one of his 'friends'. He would throw himself in front of a Gran Rey Cero, would take all the hits Grimmjow would hit him with, just to protect his 'friends'. And the girl, the little princess. She was soft and quiet and easy to intimidate, but when he threatened Kurosaki she stood up to him and stood tall and firm, despite having seen what he could do.

Those people were hurting for each other and nearly dying for each other, and it just made no sense to him. Why? Why sacrifice yourself for someone else? All it gets you is dead.

And then Kurosaki nearly died for _him._ Jumped in front of Nnoitra's blade for_ him._ And after trying to stop him from hurting himself, trying to convince him to stop fighting - even offering to fight him again.

It made no sense. Why would Kurosaki do that for him? He'd nearly killed the shinigami three times, threatened his princess, wounded his little ice queen…he'd hurt the boy's so called 'friends'. And yet Kurosaki still extended a hand, and still saved his life.

And of course, after that he'd had plenty of time to consider things. Eighteen months of loneliness is enough to alter one's priorities, really.

He began to feel like…it might be nice to have someone to be there for him. To talk to, no strings attached. Just someone to provide company. It was…comforting? To think about it. Someone to be there would be nice. Not feeling alone would be nice.

He didn't know if he could be there in return - how was he supposed to 'be a friend' when he didn't even completely understand the concept? But he figured he could try. He hadn't let not knowing how to do something stop him before.

The concept of a friend was foreign to him, but, he decided, it might be nice to have one. If it really was as good as it looked.

But as for the _who…_that of course was the hard part. But he'd heard a human saying once, 'good things come to those who wait'. Well, he hated being patient, and had scoffed at that stupid little saying. But…

Eighteen months was a long time, and among other things it had taught him patience - well, to a small degree. But he figured he could wait a little while longer, see what happened.

It's not like he'd know what to do, anyway. So let someone come to him.


	8. Mirando la Luna

I wrote this one as a request for a lovely Starrk RPer on Tumblr. Enjoy!

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Grimmjow was restless. There was nothing to do - there was _never _anything to do, but this time was different. He wanted to do something, wanted to get out of the white stone walls that were suddenly close and stifling, the bright sun that was suddenly blinding.

He wandered. Well, ran. He needed to run. There was a tight, nervous energy in him that he needed to get out, he was stir crazy and needed to move.

He found himself on the roof somehow - it seemed like some of the taller towers, the one that broke the blue of the sky, had doorways onto the dome. It was a sigh of relief as the cool wind hit him, a relief from the false heat on the inside of the cage.

He hadn't been expecting company, though. Another white-clad figure was already on the roof, lying back against the stone.

Starrk. He could tell it was the Primera simply because he was the only one that would be sleeping anywhere, let alone up above the dome.

He wandered over, more out of aimless curiosity than an actual purpose, only to find in surprise that the other man was awake.

"What're you doing up here?" He asked the man, hands in his pockets and an eyebrow arched.

Starrk didn't change positions, or even give a sign that he'd heard, for a long moment. Then finally:

"Watching the moon."

That was unexpected. "What?"

"Watching the moon. Join me?"

Confused and a little reluctant, Grimmjow joined Starrk on the roof, lying down next to him to stare up at the large, imposing crescent that dominated the starless black sky above them.

"…..So what's so interesting about the moon, anyway?"

No answer for another long minute.

"It's lonely, isn't it?"

Grimmjow looked away from the sky, glancing over at the Primera's face.

"….Lonely?"

The man nodded, his grey eyes never leaving the sky.

"It's lonely. There aren't any stars, or even a cloud. It's the only thing in the sky. Alone…it has to be lonely, you think?"

Grimmjow glanced back up at the moon. There really weren't any stars in the sky. He'd never thought about that. Not a single light in the sky, not a change of color indicating a cloud…the only thing in the sky was the moon.

"…Yeah. Maybe."

Starrk sighed. "It's a little like us."

"Like us? Really?"

"Well…we're by ourselves. Lonely. You must understand."

Grimmjow looked away, staring instead out at the desert. Did he understand?

After all, he had his fraccion…but that was different, wasn't it? He couldn't really trust any of them, in the end, not with anything personal. They weren't that close. They were subordinates, allies, nothing more. Hell, it was probably the same for all of the Espada, now that he thought of it. All alone, with the only person they could trust with everything was themselves.

"….Yeah. I think I get what you mean."

They fell silent, and stared up at the moon, two lone arrancar in the same same space.


	9. Hambre

The hunger was the first thing he remembered about being a Hollow.

There was the emptiness, dark and cold and horrible, painful and eating away at him. A huge hole in his very _being_, literal and figurative, that left a space in him that was yawning and huge and like a black hole, eating at what was around it and leaving him just. _So_. **_Hungry_**.

So he ate. He ate and ate and ate and ate until it was the only thing he did and could ever remember doing, a haze of blood and flesh and bone and copper in his mouth and that horrible yawning emptiness fading for moments and then coming back almost worse, forcing him to eat again.

He had no conscious thought for a long time, really. It was just a blur of many, many voices.

_**EATEATEATEATEATEATEATEATEATE ATEATEATEATEATEATEATEATEATEA TEATEATEATEATEATEATEATEATEAT **_

It was a never-ending scream of hundreds of voices, clamoring and shouting and begging for an end to the horrible emptiness that consumed them.

And then one voice rose higher than the rest, more demanding and more forceful, and _hungrier_.

He went after bigger prey, bigger targets, hoping to fill that emptiness in him that the louder voice demanded to be filled.

And then.

He was conscious He was a thing, able to think and reason and speak and know his own name. Able to decide what he wanted to eat, what he wanted to do.

He didn't know how he knew he had to keep eating, but he knew he had to. Knew that the endless screaming and clamoring would be back if he didn't. He'd lose his _him_-ness and never get it back if he didn't.

So he ate and ate and ate, fighting and clawing and roaring in impotent fury at the hunger instead of just riding the pull of the hole in his soul.

He found a pack, which eased the ache and loneliness a small, almost insignificant amount, but to something like him even insignificant amounts were huge.

And then came the man and his powers, and he became something else agaain.

He knew he'd never lose his him-ness now, he was safe. He didn't have to eat.

The hunger had faded, even. The horrible pounding awful ache receding to a throb in the back of his head and a hollow in his stomach that no normal food could fill.

But it was still there, taking over his thoughts when there was nothing else in them and sending him into the desert to take his frustration out on those he used to consume.

He didn't have to eat them, didn't want to eat them, didn't need to eat them, but the throb in his head and the emptiness in his soul and the ache in his bones would be too much sometimes.

He'd leave their bodies torn apart and staining the desert bloody, refusing to touch lips to flesh and bone again, no matter what the ache and throb told him to do. He'd live with that ache, he could do it.

He didn't want to give in to that hunger again, to lose himself in the animal he'd been and still was, deep in his bones and in the mask and in the empty hole in his chest.

He was an animal and a monster, eternally hungry, but he would fight it now that he could, because he was nothing if not a rebel, and he refused to go back to what he had been.


	10. Apariciones

It seemed to be a habit of the arrancar to adopt many almost human-like practices and traditions upon gaining a humanoid form.

Some of them, Grimmjow could understand - and enjoy, even. Hot showers were a blessing, absolutely wonderful after living in a dry, cold desert for so long. Sleeping in a bed was also amazing, soft and comfortable instead of sand or stone.

And food! Eating something besides Hollows. So many different flavors and textures besides blood and flesh…it was amazing.

But others, it seemed, made no sense.

The female arrancar would spend hours fancying themselves up, doing their hair and makeup and wearing so many fancy outfits. Staring at the men and making comments under their breath.

The men did that too, talking about the women.

It made no sense to Grimmjow. What did it matter what they looked like? A face was a face. Who really cared what it looked like?

A lot of people did, apparently, because even his fraccion made comments that Grimmjow could have any woman he wanted.

They didn't seem to get that the Sexta didn't care what he looked like, or about 'having women'.

He had become an arrancar to have power, to get stronger. That's what he wanted - to fight and get stronger and gain power.

He really didn't have any interest in what he looked like, or what the opposite sex thought of him.

Why did it matter if he was physically attractive, anyway? He had been a panther, a cat, a Hollow, until only recently. Putting any stock in appearance was too foreign a concept.

Material things like food and a bed and hot showers were things he could understand and appreciate, for they had a use to him and were comforts. But silly things like appearance and attraction were far beyond him.

He didn't necessarily mind not understanding, either. It wasn't important to him, so why care? Let his fraccion have their fun. He wasn't interested.

Fighting and power and getting stronger was what mattered, really, not appearances. He'd probably never understand it, and he didn't really care if he did or not.


	11. Los Trece Capitanes

Requested by my friend, a Yamamoto and Soi Fon RPer on tumblr. :)

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Grimmjow had been spending a lot of time in Soul Society recently, after the old captain had given him permission to stay if he wanted. He liked it a hell of a lot better than Hueco Mundo - the place was much more warm and full of life than the cold, empty desert.

Of course, seeing as he was there, he spent a fair amount of time people-watching. Just like in Las Noches, he would keep an eye on the strongest of the shinigami, out of interest in case he ever fought them - and just out of pure curiosity.

The old captain, of course, he had personal experience with. His fiery reiatsu and incredible power had genuinely impressed Grimmjow, and he'd definitely decided the old man was worth his respect. Further observation showed that there was a hell of a lot of difference between him and Aizen, leadership-wise. He really did seem to care about his subordinates, strictness aside. Which is something Aizen never did. And that was a refreshing change, he thought.

The small captain of the second squad was interesting. Tough and no-nonsense and with no small amount of attitude, she was definitely someone he'd butt heads with if they ever spoke. She was terribly strict to her men, but he got the feeling she was a bit softer than she seemed. He had heard about her sword's power when he'd asked about the other side of the war, and he figured she'd be a fun opponent someday.

The third had been Ichimaru's, he remembered, from the symbol on the back of his coat. Now it belonged to one of those masked guys, like Kurosaki and the blond. This guy was pretty laid-back - he'd seen him sitting around playing guitar more than once. But seeing as he was one of the ones that had Hollow powers, Grimmjow would bet he was tougher than he looked. Even so, he kind of liked listening to the guy's music - he'd sit on one of the rooftops and watch him play sometimes, the sounds a welcome change from the silence of Las Noches.

Fourth's was the only other woman captain, it seemed. He'd initially underestimated her and her squad upon hearing that they were the medical division - hell, their job was healing; how dangerous can they be? Then he saw the elegant captain intimidate an entire group of drunken shinigami to the point that they turned tail and ran…just by _smiling_. He'd decided then and there not to fuck with her - he had a strong feeling he'd be on the losing end of that.

Fifth was Aaroniero's squad, his and the little peach girl. Their captain, he remembered pretty well - the blond guy who'd fought him te secondd time he attacked Kurosaki, the man in the mask. He knew the guy was a damn good fighter, and he'd found out from Aaroniero the guy had known Aizen for a while. He had to give the man credit for putting up with him; shit knows Aizen was horrible enough as their boss. He hadn't seen much of the guy, though, so he couldn't say anything more about that. But he and Aaroniero had both been Espada, so if the Novena approved, then Hirako was okay in his book.

Sixth was that Kuchiki guy. He'd heard about him from the stories of the winter war - apparently the guy had taken Zommari out. He could figure the two had been pretty evenly matched personality-wise - the black haired captain was cold as ice and totally boring. Grimmjow would have loved to punch the guy in the face if given a chance, if just to try to get him to react. The guy was as bad as Ulquiorra in the lack of facial expressions department. Needless to say, he didn't spend much time around that division.

Seventh division's captain was pretty awesome, if just appearance-wise. The guy was a giant dog, for fuck's sake! A dog! As a captain! That was way cool. He was pretty huge, too. The most surprising part of it, though, was that despite his size and the whole _goddamn dog_ thing, he was a really genuinely nice guy. He'd heard dog-guy used to be friends with Tousen, and he felt a bit bad for the guy - Tousen was a shit, so he wondered how they'd gotten along, seeing as this guy seemed to be pretty awesome.

Division eight was apparently the guy who fought Starrk. One look at him, and Grimmjow was sure that was true. The guy was basically the shinigami's version of the Primera. Lazy, unmotivated, laid-back…the guy was so similar to Starrk it creeped Grimmjow out a little. But like Starrk, then, the guy had a dangerous side to him. Deadly and efficient, probably, and not one to fuck with. But also like Starrk, it would be hard to bring it out. Being an arrancar, he wasn't about to barge in on the guy and ask for a drink, but it was a very tempting thought - he'd liked Starrk - this guy probably wasn't too bad either.

Nine was another one of the mask guys - and Tousen's old squad. He'd immediately assumed that the new guy was gonna be just as much of a dick as him, but…the guy was actually kind of interesting. Tough and badass and all that. Definitely a guy Grimmjow would want to spar with. He hadn't approached him yet for a fight, though - it was hard figuring out a way to ask for a fight he_didn't_ intend to end with someone dead.

The captain of the tenth was…a kid. Grimmjow had nearly burst out laughing when he saw the brat. Seriously? The second's captain girl was short too, but this brat was a _kid_. A _kid_! It was hilarious. Then he found out the guy had gone toe-to-toe with Harribel, and nearly won. That changed his opinion a little - hell, if the kid was strong enough to take on the Tercera, that was something. Maybe he'd pick a fight with the guy sometime. Looked like it'd be interesting.

He _really_ liked the eleventh division. He'd immediately been drawn to the division he'd heard was the one for fighters, and he wasn't disappointed. The people were all like him - loud and loving fights. They were all awesome, he'd decided immediately. And the _captain_, holy shit. He'd heard the guy had taken out Nnoitra. Nnoitra. That in itself was something, but then he saw the guy. Holy_shit_. He knew he wouldn't get out of a fight with him unharmed. But god, was it tempting to try. Hell, he'd jump at the chance to fight any of the guys in that squad.

The twelfth, on the other hand…was obviously one to avoid. When he'd heard that their captain had bested Szayel, he knew the guy had to be at least a little crazy. One trip to the division - which he definitely stayed outside - proved his initial guess. The guy was all sorts of fucked up. He was not going anywhere near the place. For all he knew, the doors would open and he'd be yanked inside and turned into a science experiment. Fuck that shit, he didn't want to end up like that.

The last captain was interesting, too. It had taken him a little while to figure out that the captains weren't numbered 1 to 13 based on most to least powerful - they were relatively equal, in fact. So the weak-looking captain actually…wasn't. But he was still frail, it looked like, judging from what he'd seen. And that entire division seemed like it was the most cheerful of them all. Lots of friendly people in that one. They were alright.

He hadn't seen much of them just yet, but as it was, the captains of Soul Society were far more interesting and likable, as a whole, than the Espada had been. It was certainly going to be fun hanging around there, that was for sure.


	12. Espejos

It wasn't hard, to notice, once you knew to look for it.

If someone were to tell you that Ichigo Kurosaki and Grimmjow Jaegerjacques were extremely similar, you might laugh it off, at first. How absurd, you might say. They're nothing alike. One is a hero, and the other is a Hollow. And their personalities! So different.

But then you'd start thinking. Hmm, maybe they were right. And you'd begin to look closer. And you'd see it.

You'd see Ichigo's temper, which he hasn't shown as much recently - it's still there, though, that loud and angry boy with the permanent scowl. The fierce fighting spirit, and that love of fighting. You'd see the shouting, cocky boy that is the strongest boy in Karakura - the boy that called for ambulances for his opponents before the fight even started.

You'd see his confidence, and his sarcasm, and his over-the-top reactions - and his determination and sheer stubbornness. His refusal to be given orders and his lack of care for proper authority and being polite.

You'd see a lot of what Grimmjow is in Ichigo, really. It's not hard to see the brash Espada in the substitute shinigami, once you look.

It is a lot harder to see the shinigami in the Hollow, but he is there.

He's there in the rare moments of solemnity, in the honor code that most of the others don't seem to have. The desire for fair fights. The desire to fight and be strong.

The two share determination and stubbornness, hotheadedness and reckless courage. They share a disregard for politeness, and a refusal to listen to orders. They share a love of fighting, and skill at it, and a desire to get stronger.

There are many similarities between the two, though they are not alike exactly.

If there would be a way to describe it, it would be to compare it to a distorter mirror, reflecting one as the other in its rippled glass - not exact, but close.


End file.
